


To Trust Him with His Nightmares

by stillahavsvinden



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dealing With Trauma, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunions, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 11:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillahavsvinden/pseuds/stillahavsvinden
Summary: Peter hasn’t had anybody to talk to these past seven years.





	To Trust Him with His Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> There's so much to unpack between these two that I just had to write about them.

The _Moonstone_ is no longer docked in her usual place in the Weymouth Harbour. Peter finds her easily enough, however, recalling his dad’s instructions – anchored amongst the boats, bobbing in the gently lapping water.

 

Their old family boat. There are dents on the bow, streaks of rust running down the hull. There was a time when Peter spent almost all of his spare time aboard. Then Dunkirk happened, and although Peter couldn’t quite give up sailing, he refused to go below deck for the longest time. His dad and mum had to scrub the floors clean once they’d got back home from France – a memory Peter is still ashamed of.

 

Even now, seven years later, Peter can’t think about the boat without feeling like somebody has punched a hole through his chest. He has been in Weymouth for three days now, mustering his courage all this time. He can’t leave without greeting the old faithful boat.

 

Peter hesitates for a moment or two more. Then the urge grows too strong to resist. He leaps on deck, agilely as ever. The sway of the boat in the water takes a moment to get used to, but Peter finds the motion oddly comforting. He hasn’t set foot on a boat since he moved to Bournemouth for work. Plenty of opportunities for sailing there too, of course, but he just hasn’t seen the point.

 

He looks down at his feet. There are still splotches of dried oil in the cracks on the wooden floor. It could probably be scrubbed off, but there’s no need to, really, Peter muses. The starboard side is peppered with bullet holes where that ME 109 strafed it, and though Peter’s mum suggested getting the holes fixed, they never did; not as long as the boat floats.

 

Peter checks the _Moonstone_ , walks the entire length from the bow to the stern (but doesn’t go into the forepeak) and is about to disembark when he feels somebody staring at him.

 

A golden-haired man on the dock.

 

“Afternoon.”

 

For a second Peter is certain that a tidal wave has come and swept the _Moonstone_ away, sending him reeling; that he himself has set strange forces in motion by coming over. For a moment or two he can do nothing but stare. He remembers the face, can’t recall the name.

 

“Collins,” the pilot says, extending his hand over the edge of the boat. “I don’t think we were ever formally introduced.”

 

Peter scrambles over, reaches for the hand. “Peter.”

 

“Aye, I remember your name,” the man, Collins, replies.

 

Peter’s face feels hot. “Right.”

 

Collins squints in the sun, and in so doing looks just as young as he did the first time they met – around the same age that Peter is now.

 

Peter makes his way to the bow, teetering slightly, though the unsteadiness has nothing to do with the rocking of the _Moonstone_. Stumbling on deck, he takes in the man, still not quite trusting his senses.

 

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks, realising immediately how rude that must have sounded.

 

“Just passing through,” Collins answers, unfazed. “Thought I’d come and see if your boat is still here.”

 

He glances around the harbour, and Peter doesn’t know what to say. It seems like too much of a coincidence – that they should bump into each other here – and perhaps it isn’t a coincidence, but that isn’t important right now.

 

“Oh, well, she is,” Peter mumbles, gesturing vaguely at the boat. “I just came up to check on her today. I don’t actually live here anymore so…”

 

“You don’t?” Collins asks.

 

Peter shakes his head.

 

“So what do you do these days, Peter?” Collins says, and Peter wonders if that is the first time he’s heard Collins say his name.

 

“Oh, um, I went to university, got my B.A. and now I’m working in an office.”

 

“Good for you,” Collins says, beaming at Peter, and Peter can’t help but feel a boyish pride at his humble accomplishments. They’ve been more or less a distraction, but he would never admit that to anyone – intellectual pursuits to mask the din in his heart; logic to check the storm of emotions. It’s not the future he dreamt of, but then again, this isn’t a good time for such lofty ideas as dreams.

 

“Anyway, it’s a long story,” Peter replies. He holds his tongue just a moment, then he adds, “Are you in a hurry?”

 

“Me? I have all the time in the world – until the day after tomorrow, that is,” Collins replies.

 

“Fancy going for a pint?” Peter asks.

 

“I was going to ask if you’re old enough for that,” the pilot says, grinning a little, “But of course you are. Let’s go.”

 

Peter disembarks and, once he’s got his bearings, proceeds to lead them to a nice pub with a view of the harbour. There’s not much privacy in the pub, and it takes some effort to navigate around certain topics. But otherwise Peter feels oddly comfortable in Collins’ presence – once he has got used to it. Occasionally he will still blink and expect the man sitting opposite him to be gone.

 

Collins asks Peter about his life – after the war – and tells Peter stories about his time in the RAF. He doesn’t share everything with Peter, of course not – he holds himself back, exactly like Peter does.

 

Later, Peter offers to show him around the waterfront of Weymouth, and it’s in this pleasant bustle of the beach that Peter feels the air between them change. This is a man whom Peter saved from drowning. If it feels strange for him, how strange must it feel for Collins? Peter prefers not to think about it; it makes him feel too big for his boots; he just did what he had to do.

 

Along with many other memories that won’t leave him, Peter hasn’t been able to forget the steely note of frustration in his dad’s voice when he snapped at Peter, insisting that they go and see if Collins was alive after his plane crashed. Really, if it had been up to Peter, they would have left Collins to drown.

 

A shiver courses through Peter. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Collins.

 

“You all right?” Collins asks, glancing at Peter out of the corner of his eye.

 

They’ve arrived at the end of the harbour.

 

“Yeah,” Peter replies, but doesn’t answer Collins’ gaze. Instead, he makes his way down the pier and flops down on a bench, gazing out to the marina.

 

There’s a slight hesitance in Collins’ step, but eventually he sits down next to Peter – not demanding his attention or an explanation, which Peter appreciates.

 

When the silence becomes too much for Peter, he says, “Do you ever wish you could’ve done more?”

 

Collins isn’t surprised by the question, but he is contemplating his answer carefully.

 

“Of course,” Collins answers. “But it’s not always in our hands, you know.”

  
  
“I…” The word is lodged in Peter’s throat. “We were going to leave you. But my dad insisted that we go and see if you were alive. I didn’t want him to, because…” He draws in breath, steeling himself. “Because the last man we saved hurt George.”

 

He can tell the man beside him perks up at this – he remembers. Not the details, because nobody told him back then – but he remembers George.

 

Collins’ voice is gentle when he asks, “What happened?”

 

What should Peter say? How to begin to unravel a story that Peter has lived with for seven years?

 

“He shoved him. That officer shoved George. And George fell down the companionway. I didn’t think…”

 

_I didn’t think it would – kill him. I was dead certain George would be all right._

 

“And I can’t…” His voice is tight now, his chest constricted. The tears spring into his eyes, and he has to stop talking to make it stop. Collins’ warm hand lands on his back, rubbing comforting circles on Peter’s shoulderblades.

 

“And I can’t…” he tries again, “I can’t help thinking it was my fault.”

 

“Why would it be?” Collins asks.

 

Peter is flushed with shame. The shame is almost like a creature with a mind of its own, living in him.

 

“Because…” He gives a hiccup. “Because I locked him up in the forepeak. That officer. I thought my dad wanted me to. But he panicked and broke out. Maybe if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t locked him up…”

 

He can’t go on talking. The tears take over.

 

Peter half-expects Collins to tense, to judge him, to leave him, but he does none of those things. His presence is balm.

 

Peter hasn’t had anybody to talk to these past seven years. He can’t talk with his dad; his dad did try, but it was still too fresh in Peter’s mind back then. He would have talked to George – would’ve told him everything about the day when they crossed the channel to Dunkirk and back – but by then, George was gone. George just had to come along, the nitwit that he was.

 

When he’s caught his breath and the immediate storm of weeping has passed, he says, “So that’s why I thought we shouldn’t have… saved you. I’m sorry – it wasn’t right…”

 

“Hey,” Collins says quietly, “I’m alive and kicking. Just let it go.”

 

Despite the grief still bubbling in Peter, he feels a little better.

 

“You know, I’m not proud of many of the things I did that day,” Collins confides in him. “I told your dad to leave those men behind. Those men in the oil. And if I’d kept my eyes peeled, I wouldn’t have taken those hits from the Germans and had to ditch. I could’ve helped Fa…”

 

He’s touched a nerve; a nerve of his own. Collins falls quiet, turns his head away.

 

With a sigh, he continues, “There were no good decisions made that day. There never is in war. You’ve just got to make a decision and stick with it. That’s commitment. It may not always be the best decision, but it’s better than indecisiveness.”

 

Peter nods. He wants Collins to know that he appreciates his words, even if they can’t cure Peter’s grief on the spot.

 

Collins turns back towards the sea, shakes his head.

 

“You lost way too much in the war, laddie. I feel for you.”

 

* * *

 

They stay there well into the evening, with the sun painting them red on its way to the horizon. It isn’t until then that the wind grows chilly.

 

A showing in the cinema further down the harbour must have ended, as people start pouring out, chirruping away and laughing. Women with their heels clacking, arm-in-arm with debonair men. Some of the single girls throw admiring looks in Collins’ direction. Peter can’t bear to look. He wonders if Collins notices, for he clears his throat then.

 

“I’m freezing my arse off,” Collins says. “Come, let’s get you home.” He pats Peter on the shoulder, and they rise to their feet.

 

Of course, Collins isn’t getting Peter anywhere, since he has no idea where Peter’s parents live, rather it’s Peter walking himself home with Collins as company. Either way, he appreciates it. It’s wonderful to have someone by one’s side. Peter used to walk these streets alone for so many years until he abandoned them altogether.

 

They turn off the high street and pass into the quiet of the residential area. The road weaves up a gently rolling hill. The hillside is dotted with several bungalows and near-identical detached houses.

 

On top of the hill, Collins turns and looks down at where they’ve come from. Peter knows that the view is quite something – the view of the town in the last rays of sun, in the embrace of the sea. Peter always meant to live near the sea – even after Dunkirk.

 

“Beautiful night,” Collins remarks. “Clear skies.”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

Collins _would_ notice the skies and not than the sea. He turns back to Peter, and they make their way to the house where the Dawsons live.

 

The windows are dark as Peter fumbles for the key in his pocket and unlocks the door. A quiet meow sounds from the depths of the house.

 

“It’s okay, Smudge, it’s only me,” Peter says.

 

“You’ve got a cat?” Collins asks.

 

“Yeah. I’m minding her over the weekend while Mum and Dad are away,” Peter explains, and steps over the threshold.

 

“So you’re on your own then?” says Collins.

 

“Yeah,” Peter says slowly, “That’s why I came here, actually. To Weymouth, I mean.”

 

Collins nods.

 

Silence falls between them. Is this it? Time for Peter to send Collins away, with a wish that they’ll meet again someday, even though they both know they probably never will?

 

“So, uhh,” Collins says, clears his throat. “It was good to see you, Peter.”

 

“Why don’t you come in?” Peter asks, the words just escaping his mouth.

 

Collins, already turning to leave, pauses, attention arrested. There’s a second during which he studies Peter’s face, and Peter tries his damnedest to keep calm and look normal. He doesn’t want to scare Collins away; neither does he want to get ahead of himself.

 

“I mean, unless you’ve got somewhere to go or…” he adds quickly, stumbling over his words.

 

“Oh, no, I don’t,” Collins answers, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. He steps in, and Peter closes the front door.

 

“Um, would you like anything? Tea?” Peter asks, feeling a little self-conscious in his childhood home.

 

“Tea, if you insist,” Collins replies with a slight grin.

 

Peter bustles around in the kitchen with the tea. When the tea is ready, he turns towards his guest again.

 

He finds Collins staring at something in the living room.

 

The photographs. Of Peter and his brother, James.

 

James in his RAF uniform.

 

They sit at the table, sip their teas. A minute or two passes before Collins lowers his cup of tea slowly. “Mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing towards the photographs.

 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Peter says, though if he didn’t mind, his heart wouldn’t be racing in his chest the way it is.

 

Collins walks over to the chest of drawers, slowly, respectfully even. He bows slightly, peering at the faces in the photographs. Peter feels oddly self-conscious – the photos of him are at least a decade old – but then it occurs to him that of course Collins isn’t interested in photos of him, but photos of the man in the RAF uniform.

 

“Your brother looks a lot like you,” he remarks.

 

“James? Oh, yeah, I used to get that a lot. Two peas in a pod.”

 

Though never like this – it’s always Peter resembling James, never the other way around.

 

“I bet you’d look good in a uniform too,” Collins adds, by way of a joke, “But it’s better if you never have to wear one.”

 

Peter’s cheeks feel hot. His heart is practically ready to spring out of his chest.

 

“I did enlist in the navy,” he says, “Just never saw any action.”

 

“Apart from Dunkirk,” Collins points out. “You were lucky. It might not feel like it, but…”

 

“Yeah. My dad used to say that too.”

 

Collins turns and comes back to the table. “You don’t believe him?” he asks, quirks a brow.

 

“I do,” Peter replies, a hint of defiance in his voice. “I just… I guess I never… never got to fulfil my duties.”

 

“I’m sure you did,” Collins says. “There are duties outside of battle, too.”

 

Peter’s hand is resting on the table, next to his cup of tea. Collins shifts, and for a split second Peter is certain that Collins is reaching for his hand. He tells himself to stay still.

 

_Let him take your hand._

 

But Collins backs out, looking away, flustered.

 

Peter makes his decision then. He lunges for Collins’ hand. They both look up in shock, and Peter is certain he has ruined it – broken the magic, broken their mutual understanding…

 

The moment seems to stretch on forever.

 

Then, Collins flips his hand over and takes Peter’s into his own. His hand is warm and rough, but the roughness only makes Peter tremble harder.

 

He can’t take it anymore.

 

He jumps out of his chair. The other man doesn’t immediately follow; he hesitates. But then Collins seems to make up his mind, and slowly rises from his seat. He follows Peter as Peter leads him upstairs, where his old room is; not exactly in the same condition as it was when Peter still lived here, and right now, he’s grateful for it.

 

They hover in the doorway, Peter almost deaf from the pulse in his ears. Slowly, tentatively, Collins closes the distance between them, cups his face. Peter is still shorter than Collins; he has to tilt his chin up to meet Collins’ mouth.

 

Peter has kissed a few girls over the years, but this feels completely different. Collins’ mouth knows what it’s doing, his hands holding Peter’s face know what they’re doing. This isn’t right, Peter knows, but that’s exactly why he appreciates Collins’ determination.

 

They part from the kiss. Peter feels Collins’ eyes on him, but can’t bear to answer the gaze. Instead, Peter backs to his bed, dazed, and pauses only when the edge of his bed hits the back of his legs. Collins is the first one to lie down in the narrow bed; Peter ends up on top, and since Collins doesn’t seem to mind, Peter doesn’t either.

 

“Hey?” Collins says, his breath hitching.

 

Peter looks up at him questioningly. His eyes twinkle in the dark.

 

“You okay?” Collins asks.

 

Peter lets out an incredulous huff. “Yeah.”

 

But Collins isn’t in a joking mood this time. “I just wanted to make sure,” he says.

 

“I’m okay,” Peter repeats.

 

A gentle smile lights up Collins’ face. “I believe you.”

 

He cups Peter’s face, but it’s Peter who brings his mouth down against Collins’. Peter feels Collins holding back, and he’s both grateful for and frustrated by it. He wants to get closer, all the way to Collins’ skin.

 

And before Peter even notices, his shirt is already half-way off, with Collins easing it off Peter’s shoulders.

 

Fingers trembling, Peter unbuttons Collins’ shirt – and for a moment Peter is almost disbelieving of the fact that Collins is human and real – that there is a man underneath those clothes.

 

His strong arms close around Peter, and Peter gasps as he feels Collins’ erection against his own – an electric shock through his body. He doesn’t think twice, although perhaps he should, because Collins is slightly amused by him as he starts fumbling with Collins’ trousers.

 

“What?” Peter asks quietly.

 

Collins shakes his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Nothing. Don’t worry.”

 

Swallowing more loudly than he would like, Peter pulls down Collins’ trousers.

 

“Here,” Collins says and sits up suddenly. “Let me help you.”

 

And he strips off Peter’s trousers.

 

Soon they’re on top of one another again, this time skin-on-skin. Collins doesn’t stop Peter when he slides his hand down and wraps it around Collins’ length. The older man throws his head back, gives the quietest gasp, and Peter’s head is swimming.

 

Collins’ hand slides down between them as well, and Peter almost climaxes there and then. He doesn’t want to; he doesn’t want quick and unfulfilling right now; not this time. Especially not with Collins.

 

He pushes Collins’ hand away.

 

Collins tenses beneath him. “D’you want me to stop?”

 

“No, I…” Peter begins, faltering under Collins’ gaze, even more so when the look of understanding comes to Collins’ eyes.

 

“You want me to do something else?”

 

He can’t speak the words, so he does the next best thing, unobtrusively straddling Collins’ hips. Peter’s face flushes hot, but some of it is mirrored on Collins’ face. The man beneath him swallows loudly.

 

“Yeah. All right,” Collins answers, going for a matter-of-fact tone. He props himself up on his elbow. “I’ve just gotta get a… I’ve got one in my bag.”

 

“Oh, right,” Peter says quickly, and gets off of Collins’ lap.

 

The man dashes downstairs and returns.

 

“They gave these away in the force,” Collins says, seemingly only to lighten the mood.

 

“And you took them?” Peter says. He immediately realises that his words can be misconstrued, and yet he can’t help but feel a prick of jealousy. Just how many people has Collins slept with?

 

Collins could take his remark as a jibe, but instead he gives Peter a dry smile.

 

“I only took two.”

 

Peter flushes hot – not his place to judge.

 

He looks away while Collins puts on the condom, and somehow it only solidifies in Peter’s mind that this is real and that this is happening. It’s less passionate, more deliberate – and more meaningful because of that.

 

“Right.” Collins lies back down, and Peter gathers his resolve.

 

Collins’ gaze never leaves Peter’s while Peter adjusts his position. It takes some time, but Collins is a patient man. After seven years, some people can’t help but turn impatient, but Collins obviously isn’t one of them.

 

“Oh my God.”

 

The words fall off Peter’s lips. Collins is watching him, and for some reason Peter is sure he can tell what the man’s thinking – that Peter is the single most beautiful thing Collins has seen in years.

 

He hazily feels Collins’ hand in his hair. He pulls Peter down for a kiss while their bodies start rocking against one another.

 

Peter clutches Collins’ shoulders for support, rests his head in the crook of Collins’ neck, inhaling his scent. He only hazily notes that he’s making noise – quiet gibberish. Peter is no longer in command of himself. He gives in, lets Collins take care of the situation and him.

 

Peter doesn’t last long; it’s all just too much for him. And when he collapses on Collins’ chest, Collins runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, breathes out the words: “You okay?”

 

The words take their sweet time to travel to Peter’s brain.

 

“Yeah,” he gasps. His body is flushed hot and sweaty; so is Collins’.

 

He lets Peter take his time before saying, “Want me to go on?”

 

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

 

He lays Peter down on the hot sheets, positions himself between Peter’s legs. And a moment or two later Peter watches in awe as Collins’ face is transformed with pleasure.

 

Collins crashes down next to Peter, and they make space for themselves in Peter’s cramped bed, chests heaving in unison. Peter feels oddly human again – like his body is capable of giving him something other than sorrow. He sneaks a glance at the man next to him, wondering – hoping – that Collins is feeling something similar. The man merely wraps an arm around Peter, pulls him to his side. It’s quite nice, especially with the sweat cooling on Peter’s skin and making him shiver.

 

Peter is suddenly reminded of the fact that he hasn’t been embraced properly for a long time. His parents were quite liberal with displays of affection, but that was then, and even they had turned just a shade colder after…

 

“I did think about you, after the evacuation.” Collins’ voice is meditative but matter-of-fact. “I wish I could’ve said something more back then. To make you feel better. You know, I couldn’t help but feel like… you were my responsibility.”

 

He turns and looks straight at Peter – blue eyes on blue eyes. “I still do.”

 

All kinds of emotions stir in Peter at these words.

 

“Oh,” he says, if only to buy himself some time.

 

“I guess I shouldn’t’ve said that,” Collins adds sheepishly. “I mean, you’re a man now and everything. No laddie anymore.”

 

“No,” Peter says slowly. “I’m not.”

 

Collins bites his lip. “Look, I’m sorry…”

 

“No,” Peter says again, firmly, “It's not that. Don’t apologise.”

 

The temperature in the bedroom seems to have dropped several degrees.

 

It’s the word – responsibility – that sends a tremor through Peter’s frame. The last time Peter was anybody’s responsibility, he was his brother’s. His brother was still alive. The last time anyone was his responsibility, George was still alive.

 

He had lost them both, and this man – now lying in Peter’s bed – had entered his life.

 

Nothing had gone to plan that day; not since the war broke out. Not since Peter boarded the _Moonstone_ that fateful day in June of 1940.

 

“I should probably go.”

 

The man beside him shifts, flings his legs over the edge of the bed.

 

“Oh,” Peter says again. He wants Collins to both stay and to leave – and it seems the easiest to just go along with Collins’ plans.

 

He watches eagerly, hungrily, as Collins gets dressed, committing it to memory, because now he is sure they will never see each other again. Pressed trousers, a neat shirt. The man runs his fingers through his hair, combing his golden hair off his face.

 

“It’s all right – you don’t have to get up,” Collins says as Peter starts getting dressed. “I can see myself out.”

 

“It’s fine,” Peter says at once, stumbling as his leg gets tangled in the trouser leg. He thinks he sees a fleeting, wistful smile on Collins’ face, but then it’s gone, and they’re at the front door.

 

A gust of fresh, chilly air slips in as Collins steps out into the night.

 

“I’ll be in town for two more days,” he tells Peter. His tone is devoid of any particular sentiment, but Peter can read the implications loud and clear.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

 

Collins flashes him a smile; it reads, _that’s kind of you to say, but I’m not holding my breath_.

 

Peter shuts the door. He can’t help but stay there, pretending that Collins will change his mind and ring the doorbell.

 

When he finally makes it upstairs, to his room, his sheets smell of Collins. Peter lays himself down carefully, nuzzles his pillow, savouring the scent. He’s afraid of falling asleep, in case the scent is gone by the time he wakes up.

 

He can’t have Collins – not more than this. Perhaps it’s better if they never meet again; perhaps it’s better if Peter lets Collins leave the day after tomorrow. Perhaps it’s better if this is it for them. That the last time Peter saw him was when he walked out the door at Peter’s childhood home, after that bewildering moment of intimacy.

 

* * *

 

Peter stirs from his sleep in the early hours of the morning when Smudge settles down on his chest.

 

“Oh, sorry – I said I’m sorry, Christ!” he grumbles as the cat takes off with an indignant meow.

 

He lies back down, sweaty and heart hammering, though it’s no use anymore – it’s brightening outside the window, and Peter can’t sleep anymore anyway. He presses his nose into his pillow, breathes in – there’s no scent.

 

Yet it couldn’t have been a mere dream, because if it had, well, Peter wouldn’t be feeling so awful just now. So indecisive.

 

What was it again that Collins said about commitment?

 

Peter hauls himself out of bed, goes through the morning routines, feeds Smudge. The two tea cups are still sitting on the table in the kitchen, neither of them completely empty. Peter encloses his fingers around one of them, careful; imagines Collins’ warm touch on the china. His scalp tingles with the memory of the pilot’s fingers running through his hair.

 

The photographs atop the chest of drawers are watching him; he feels the burn in the nape of his neck, and he has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder.

 

A cloud thaws somewhere on the sky just then; a beam of sunlight slinks into the kitchen, washing over Peter.

 

* * *

 

He knows where the hotel is – he has walked past it a thousand times, though never with legs this weak. Seagulls are darting over him, crying, as he makes his way to the harbour – the sound Peter has missed the most about Dorset.

 

There’s a bench on the promenade, angled just right so that he can keep an eye on the hotel. He sits down, glad to be off his buckling knees, even if it means that the nerves are transferred elsewhere, into his belly. He’s short of breath, so much so that he’s feeling faint. His breathing never quite steadies and his pulse never stops racing during the time that he sits there, watching and waiting.

 

Weymouth has only just woken up.

 

And at last, one golden-haired figure steps out into the Dorset sun. Peter shades his eyes with a hand, though he would recognise Collins anywhere.

 

“Flight Officer!”

 

The head swivels around, searching for the source of the voice. Finally his eyes find Peter’s, and Peter’s belly flips. A second’s hesitation in the older man’s eyes while he takes in Peter’s countenance. Then his features soften.

 

“It’s Flight Lieutenant now, laddie.”

 

Peter fights back a laugh. He jumps up from the bench, hurries towards the man, sending seagulls flying.

 

“Morning,” Collins says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?” says Peter, cheerful.

 

Collins gives a noncommittal shrug. He didn’t; but he is delighted now.

 

“The beach is quiet at this hour,” Peter continues.

 

Collins’ voice is warm when he says, “Lead the way then.”

 

And Peter does. He takes them away from the harbour, over to the beach. The beach is a wide open space, with houses lining the seafront, but on the other end of the bay the ground slants upwards, turning into green hills which shelter the beach.

 

They’ve walked all the way up to the shade of the hills by the time Collins speaks.

 

“You know, Peter…”

 

God, what his name sounds like in the pilot’s mouth.

 

“I feel a little…” Collins makes a gesture with his hand, sighs. “A little bad about last night. I shouldn’t have led you on like that.”

 

Peter gives an involuntary snort, earning a quirked brow from Collins.

 

“You didn’t lead me on,” Peter explains. “It was my decision as well as yours.”

 

There are boulders exposed in the sand, inviting the two men to sit down.

 

“Well, even then,” Collins continues. “I was a bit worried that… well –”

 

“Oh no, I understand,” Peter says at once. “You’re not my brother, and you’re not George.”

 

The words ring between them for a long time after Peter has said them.

 

“And I don’t even want you to be. I’ve never wanted that. Nobody can replace them, and I’ve… I’ve moved on.”

 

He says those words, and for the first time in these past seven years believes in them. He holds Collins’ gaze, as difficult as it is.

 

“I did for a moment think that I was just… trying to distract myself. But I wasn’t. I haven’t, well… I haven’t let anyone close to me. For a very long time,” Peter says. “So don’t regret it. I know I don’t.”

 

An involuntary smile rises to Collins’ face. Peter touches Collins’ arm – the touch reminding him of last night, grounding him.

 

“You know,” Collins says, “You’re a very brave man, Peter.”

 

“I’m not,” Peter counters. “Some things just… need to be said.”

 

He flinches when Collins’ warm hand encloses his. The hand stays on top of Peter’s long enough. Peter glances around – the people closest to them are further along the vast beach. Then he looks at Collins.

 

_It’s okay_.

 

He leans closer and rests his head on Collins’ shoulder.

 

The fabric of Collins’ jacket is coarse under his cheek, but it smells familiar and intoxicating – of Collins. The soft weight on top of Peter’s head tells him that Collins has laid his head on top of Peter’s.

 

The sea is glimmering in the sun, lapping gently with no end in sight. The seawinds whip their hair.

 

This is the man whom he pulled out of the wreckage, out of the sea; the only one he hesitated to save. And while they’re there, it feels as if Collins is the only person Peter has in this world. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks Collins must feel the same way about him.

 

Peter wonders if somewhere out there, across the sea or on some other beach in England, sits another pair of people just like this, facing the water.

 

Collins takes a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“My address,” Collins says. “I don’t expect you to come all the way up to Scotland, of course, but…” He shrugs, pretending that it’s nothing, when in actuality he cares, he cares, loads; and Peter feels a swooping sensation in his belly.

 

“Thanks,” Peter replies, breathless. “Once we get back to civilisation I can… well, give you mine.”

 

Odds are that by the time they meet again, Collins will have a wife and a family, and Peter will too – and that if that is to be the case, then Peter accepts it gladly. It will be a different kind of commitment, but it will do him good.

 

It is in that moment that the war is over for Peter.

 


End file.
